


Late Night in Shinjuku

by squorsh



Category: Koroshiya Ichi | Ichi the Killer
Genre: Gen, mild blood warn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 23:37:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16459232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/squorsh/pseuds/squorsh
Summary: Kakihara is plagued with insomnia and ponders the things that led up to such an occurrence.





	Late Night in Shinjuku

**Author's Note:**

> idk what this is i just wanted to get this out of my system  
> i also dont know how to end fics. so it probably reads as fairly rushed. this is the writing equivalent of doodle ig

Shinjuku was quiet, for once. It was two in the morning – maybe three, actually. Four? The man found it unimportant. What _was_ important was that he was awake instead of sleeping, and despite being awake, he was doing absolutely nothing productive. For a night owl, his schedule certainly didn’t permit him any leeway for insomnia. Pity.

His fuzzed fingers gripped the matchstick tightly as he ran it swiftly against the cool metal of the bars surrounding his apartment patio, the stick glowing with a small flame. Despite its miniscule size, its light was prominent in the pitch black of the outdoors, lighting up his cigarette with ease. Shaking it out, it extinguished, leaving him in darkness once more. Not even the city’s lights fully reached him, but in a way, he appreciated it. It made him feel secluded.

A subtle burning sensation hit his lungs as he inhaled a bit too deeply than one should, eyes fluttering shut as he let the smoke fill his chest, and finally, unable to hold it in any longer, let it out in one fell exhale. The substance wafted from his nostrils, his slightly agape mouth, and the cuts on either side of his lips. It stung the flesh there, but he found he didn’t mind. It was minimal to him, unable to cause any reaction.

As his dark eyes cracked open once more, his head found its way tilting upward at the sky. The city lights obscured any stars lingering above, but not even they could block out the moon at half-crescent brightly shining down on everyone beneath it. He found his mind wandering to such a thought – in comparison to the celestial body hovering above everyone on earth, he was small. Everyone was small, really, to the oden seller down second avenue in downtown to the elderly old lady who always told him that he looked too stiff when he passed her on fourth. Even he was small, in the technical scheme of things, but Masao Kakihara had one distinct difference between he and those aforementioned.

Yes, perhaps he was small. But he was not insignificant.

His cigarette had been sucked down faster than he had realized. Shoving the lit end into the top of the patio railing until it fizzled out, he nonchalantly tossed it over the edge and let out a bated sigh. Leftover smoke seeped out of his mouth as he pondered lighting a second, but ultimately decided not to, showcasing this by shoving his hands in his pajama pants pockets.

After a few more seconds of existential pondering, as one did, he eventually had had enough and turned on heel to step back inside his apartment. A hand retracted from his pocket to slide the glass door close, followed by the curtain lingering beside it and leaving him in complete darkness save for the television on the far-left side of the room. It scarcely illuminated the room around him, but he found he didn’t care as he shuffled forward in the darkness.

A curse rang out as his toe hit a step into his kitchen that he had forgotten about, jaw tightening as he carefully corrected his mistake and took a cautious step upward. His hand reached out and fumbled for a lightswitch he knew to be nearby, and eventually his fingers found it, flipping it upward. He squinted as light filled the room, holding his hand over his eyes and inhaling quietly through his teeth whilst his sight adjusted.

If he was going to be awake, he might as well stay awake, he figured as he turned on his coffee pot and reached into a nearby cupboard for grounds and a filter. Still squinting a bit, he began to measure it into the filter and closed the can up afterward. Even a man such as himself had to make his own coffee… He wasn’t sure why the thought amused him, almost. The coffee was prepared and began to brew, his arms folding over his chest as he leaned against the counter impatiently.

Waking up in the middle of the night wasn’t an uncommon thing for him to begin with, but the consistent insomnia was. Briefly, he pondered what the reasoning could be.

His mind didn't have to wander for long. It was obvious what was taking away his sleep; his mind was too active to stop focusing on it. It was one specific thing.

One.

_Ichi._

What a mysterious being. Kakihara had pondered what Ichi looked like, sounded like, and acted like. Elaborate daydreams had been constructed consisting of what would happen when they met, all sorts of possibilities flooding his mind at any given moment.

He had seen the bodies. He knew what this man was capable of - this stranger with an absolutely gruesome killing style not even he had ever accomplished. Torture? Certainly; it was par for the course. Clean, merciless murder? It wasn't his strong suit, per se.

As the sound of the coffee trickled down into the pot beneath, Kakihara rested his chin in a hand, fingers absentmindedly scratching at the fuzz just below his jawline. Did Ichi take pleasure in his kills? He certainly had to, with what they had found at crime scenes. But what about the acts themselves? Did he savor his kills and take his time, or was it a clean attack, a bit of fun, and then he was gone? And how did he keep getting away?

Any excitement that had welled in the man's gut was replaced with a sharp frustration resembling pinpricks in his chest. It had many sources, all welling together to form a feeling similar to heartburn, crawling up his throat. Ichi was the cause of so much downfall for himself and his kumi, and yet… he still craved to know more. He wanted Ichi. He _needed_ Ichi. And yet…

His fist balled beneath his chin, nails digging into his palm as his hand shook with fervor. Too much was on his mind at once. Ichi. Jijii. Oyaji, even now. He had since been disowned, and nearly two thirds of his clan had abandoned him behind his back out of fear. Out of hesitation.

Air was sucked in through his teeth. The nails dug into the skin. His palm grew wet.

Cowards. All of them.

His hand retracted, opening his hand to look down at the tinges of red against his pale skin, trickling down his palm. A drop fell onto the floor before he could catch it, and for a few seconds, he stood there in silence, mind blissfully empty for a brief moment as he watched the liquid sink into the grooves of the tiled kitchen floor.

The coffee machine beeped, startling him back into reality and giving him something else to think about. A mug was removed from a cabinet above his head, the coffee poured into it. Two cubes of sugar were dropped into his drink and caused a bit of the hot liquid to splash onto the countertop, but much like the droplet of blood that was already drying just inches away from his bare feet, he found he did not care about cleaning it up.

Kakihara wrapped his hand around the mug instead of taking it by the handle, the heat stinging his freshly injured hand and causing him to exhale sharply through his nostrils. Stepping away from the counter, he flicked the light off and walked out of the kitchen – mindful of the step – and into the bedroom, television still loosely illuminating the area of the room.

Rather than getting back in bed, as he probably should have done in the first place, he fell back into the armchair inside with a sigh, holding his coffee mug with both hands now. Tomorrow’s plans were… what were they, again? His mind was so jumbled from his thoughts and the desperation for sleep that he found he had forgotten. Someone would remind him, even if he only had eight members left. It was fine. This was fine.

Forcing his hand not to tense around the mug, for breaking it would only cause more irritations and inconveniences, and wiping hot coffee off of his lap and extracting porcelain shards from his fingers wasn’t on any sort of current agenda of his. Instead, he held it up to his lips and took a sip before lowering, eyes half-lidded and looking lazily up at his television screen, but not really watching it.

One one one. Ichi Ichi Ichi. Thinking about this mystery man sent chills up his spine, and even amidst all the grief he had caused him, his mind always wandered to anticipatory fantasies and musings of what would happen when they met. Would he die? It was a high possibility. But the pain endured before escaping death… now that would be the most ecstatic feeling he could imagine.

Kakihara sank back further into his chair, holding his coffee closer to his chest. Ichi’s handiwork was incredible. Limbs sliced clean through, people’s faces gone, clean cuts and severed arteries… he and his companions theorized he used some sort of hatchet. How…

He sipped his coffee, slowly.

… primitive.

But there was always a setback. Ichi had exhibited reluctance at murder scenes. Traces of tears, vomit, or otherwise. There was pity in his violence. It was like a bright red stain on a crisp, freshly ironed white shirt. If only he could embrace the enjoyment that could be had in such actions. Were that the case… he would be perfect.

His mind was wandering. The mug was lowered into his lap, head leaning back against the cushioned give of the chair. The movement caused the piercings around his ears to quietly jingle before settling, leaving the room silent save for the muted words spoken by a woman on television whose dialogue was all melting into jumbled nonsense.

A hand slipped over to the side table, his index finger pressing against a remote’s button to silence the screen, leaving him in an eerie quietness with nothing but his own thoughts. The hand moved back to his cup, fingers curling around its circumference, and he continued to stare upward at a ceiling he could barely make out in the darkness.

Look at him. Sitting in the darkness, pondering how many ways he could be harmed instead of worrying about the safety of himself and his members, or how they would be able to financially stabilize, or what would happen if they kept walking into businesses and torturing everyone in sight. Even with all of these issues piling up, his anxiety about this mysterious killer is what drove him up the wall.

Head lilting to the side, he pondered. Kaneko had once told him in a moment of boldness, or perhaps stupidity, that Kakihara was growing far too mad for someone so young. 35 going on 55, he had said. Instead of being insulted, the man had taken it as a compliment of sorts. Better to know who he was and what his purpose was than to be pretending that he knew, much like his fellow clan members.

He recalled tomorrow’s plans. He would call the twins, set them up so they were comfortable, and then put them on a mission to find Ichi. It was so they could lure him closer to them and at last reach the inevitable climax that he craved so intently.

As he lowered his head once more, bringing the mug to his lips and letting it linger there, he found peace in the fact that perhaps, after it was all said and done, he could finally get a good night’s sleep.


End file.
